Laurie Loewenstein - Death of a Rainmaker: A Dust Bowl Mystery

This is a work of historical fiction. All names, characters, places, and incidents are either a product of the authors imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to real events or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

Published by Akashic Books
2018 Laurie Loewenstein

Paperback ISBN: 978-1-61775-665-8
Hardcocver ISBN: 978-1-61775-679-5
Library of Congress Control Number: 2018931312

All rights reserved
First printing

Kaylie Jones Books
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Akashic Books
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Ballydehob, Co. Cork, Ireland
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For Nathaniel, my greatest joy,

and for Steve, the love of my life

Chapter one

There is no man more hopeful than a farmer, who wakes each morning to the vagaries of a heifer gone off her feed, seed that doesnt take, a late spring, an early autumn, too much rain, or, worst of all, no rain at all, and still climbs out of bed and pulls up his overalls. And so it would seem that a fellow who swears he can cure this agrarian heartache, who swears he can make it rain, would be clinched to the bosom of every farm family from here to kingdom come.

And that was pretty much the case in the county of Jackson, in the state of Oklahoma, in the bulls-eye of the Dust Bowl, on August 2nd in the heart of the 1930s. As evening fell, farm and townsfolk loaded up their children and climbed into their jalopies. Strung out in a gap-toothed cortege, they motored a ways outside of town. The procession then turned sharply off the road and into a field. This particular field had once been fertile soil, etched into deep furrows. Now it was nothing more than hardpanas impenetrable and unforgiving as granite. The last speck of loamy topsoil had blown across Oklahomas borders into Arkansas years back, leaving behind compacted dirt, its individual particles bound together so tightly that even a drop of water couldnt wiggle through. But that made no matter because there was no water. Not an iota of rain had dribbled into the parched mouth of Jackson County for 240 days.

In silent choreography, the folk parked alongside one another and debarked. As they gathered, billowing dust settled wherever it chose. Pastor Coxey stepped into the semicircle to bless the crowd and the rainmakers efforts. A woman commenced coughing but quieted when a stranger with rolled shirtsleeves stepped into the headlights silver shafts. Roland Coombs was tall, with an open, easy face. He grinned and a bit of dental work glinted far back. Hed driven into Vermillion, the county seat of Jackson, just that morning with wooden crates of TNT and blasting powder roped down in the back of an open truck. Tucked within the pocket of his store-bought jacket had been a sheaf of testimonials from drought-stricken towns across four states. Vermillions Commercial Club had hired him on the spot.

Now Roland was studying the ground, cupping his fist to his chest, as if a pitcher contemplating an opening throw. When he spoke, the words sluiced easily over his lips: Thank you, Reverend. We are surely in need of the good Lords blessing.

Several amens resonated from the crowd.

I am here to tell you that He has placed in my hands the tools with which to bring rain to your parched fields. Nothing complicated. Just this little old matchstick and a load of TNT.

A skiff of dirt blew up, skimming the hardpan and whipping against the bare legs of little girls in short dresses. Several of them set to bawling and had to be comforted.

Roland didnt pause. You see, I was a munitions man during the war. Shoveling shells into howitzers and blowing the Huns to kingdom come. One afternoon it came to me that every time wed deliver a good old dose of TNT, wed get a thunderstorm sure as shootin. Seemed like the explosions would give the skies a healthy kick in the drawers and down came the rain. Blam if I know why, but it happened all the same.

Roland grinned wide. A good number of the crowd chuckled, relaxing into his river of words. Some, mostly farmers and their wives, retained a stiff reserve. Their hearts had been broken too many times. Yet still they wanted to hope.

Roland cocked a finger at the crowd. But I recognize some doubters out there. And thats for the good. Because seeing is believing. Tonight Im going to pepper your skies with TNT and see if you dont get rain by tomorrow afternoon. Maybe not a soaker, but at least a shower to prime the pump. How about that for a guarantee? And Ill keep at it for the next three weeks to make sure the heavier rains follow.

He rubbed his hands together. So, lets get the ball rolling. Mamas, hold your little ones tight. Switching on a heavy flashlight, he trotted to the launch area hed set up earlier that day. Twenty shells packed with TNT were pointed nose up toward the stars. Roland squatted to inspect the charges, then began delicately linking each fuse to the detonator. He inhaled. Nothing sweeter than the scent of explosives. For this launch, hed arranged the shells in two concentric circles. The same pattern had produced rain before and it was worth trying again. It was all about the timing and the pattern. If he found the right combination and summoned up a healthy dousing, the whole Oklahoma Panhandlehell, the entire High Plainswould be his gravy train. Hed had a couple of miffs. Been escorted to several county lines. But he knew, in his heart of hearts, that he was close to nailing it down. Striking the match, he studied the blue flame. It jiggled like that girlie show dancer hed seen in Kansas City, whod shimmied while he and the rest of the audience pantedthumping away under the newspapers covering their unbuttoned flies. He lit the fuse and hustled back to the gathered crowd.

Ladies, cover your ears. Its a-coming! he shouted as the rockets shot upward with high-pitched screams. A series of thudding concussions shook the sky and shot vibrations deep into the hardpan. It was as if the millions of buffalo, slaughtered sixty years back, had risen from the dead and were stampeding again. And with the concussions came explosions of harsh white light. Flashes revealing all, then plunging the spectators into darkness, then stripping them naked again. Over and over. The loose blankets of dust on the road, on the fence posts, on the cars, and on the people, rippled and settled time and again.

Some of the folks, including Reverend Coxey, fled to their vehicles. But most, like Jess Fuller whose farm was scheduled for foreclosure the next day, stayed put, with heads cocked back and hands keeping their hats in place. As each explosion burst, Jess pumped his fist, shouting, You go, you go! as if cheering on Dizzy Dean rounding the bases. Despite years of toil in the sun and wind, Jess still had a smooth boyish face. Beneath the brim of his woven hat, his eyes were as blue as penny marbles. Hours before, ever since hed heard about the rainmaker, Jesss ruminations had spun around one thought: Just one good soaking. Justa one. He figured a single cloudburst could salvage the kitchen garden and the remaining cattle, at least enough to hold off foreclosure. Justa one, Lordie.

His wife Hazel stood alongside him in her old-fashioned hat, under which her thoughts spun in a different direction. She was wrung dry. She couldnt squeeze out any more tears for the plot theyd dreamed about as newlyweds in Indiana, the plot theyd scrimped for and bought and tilled and sweet-talked for the past eight years. For the house, in whose single window shed hung lace curtains. Tomorrow it was all going on the auction block and good riddance. The sooner they got back to Indiana, the sooner theyd get back on their feet. If this rainmaker brought down just a single drop, she knew that Jess would dig in his heels. Hed take it as a sign that the rains would be back, that the green sea of sprouting wheat would again lap at their doorstep. But she understood that the life theyd had in the good years had withered and blown away. With each explosion, she watched mournfully as Jesss face brightened in the white light. The smell of explosives thickened the air. Hazel felt a sprinkling across her hat and for a second she froze. Rain? Already? But when she held out her hand only grains of dirt, tossed by the explosions, spattered into her palm. She smiled.